


Clean Up

by subtropicalStenella



Series: Bar Fight [2]
Category: Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Gen, M/M, Medical Procedures, Sub Drop, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: Pilots stick together, even when one of them needs the stupid punched out of him. Except that won't work either, because he'd probably like it.





	Clean Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Starofwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starofwinter/gifts).



"Ah  _ shit _ ,” is his completely accurate assessment of the situation, so it's Mids that gets down on the filthy, sticky floor in a front of their fucked up and fucked over and fuck-drunk wingmate. Anomaly is under the sink, huddled up with his back pushed into the corner. At least Anomaly looks up a little, as much as he can look at anyone with one eye swollen shut, slurring something that's probably their names through split and bloody lips.

“Hey buddy,” Mids says softly. “Heard the 238th was picking fights a-fuckin-gain, cornered a pilot and a Commando. Thought you might want a pickup.”

More slurring, a question. How did…?

“One, you walked out of the barracks in shorts that gave the entire damn battalion a gunshow. Two, tall-dark-and-fucking-scary is exactly your type. We just followed the smoke to the dumpster fire,” he grumbles, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest.

 

Mids looks back over his shoulder long enough to glare, saying, “ _ Bro. _ ”

“I'm not wrong,” he growls unrepentantly.

“But you  _ are  _ a dick, my dude,” Mids says.

“Look at him, if that's a Null’s idea of a rescue, he was better off with the fucking 238th,” he spits.

 

Anomaly mumbles something, starts to uncurl a bit. 

“You're not fucking  _ fine,  _ dicknuts, you look like you lost a fight with a fuckin nexu--” Gunner snarls, tense and  _ angry,  _ not at Anomaly, but it's kinda hard to tell, so,

“Guns,  _ chill,"  _ Mids snaps.

 

More mumbling, a little stronger.

 

“Alright, alright, maybe you asked for the rough stuff but dude, nobody wants to be left cold on a fresher floor,” Mids says, and reaches to pull Anomaly's good arm--which is a relative term, because it's the metal one--over his shoulder. “Let's get you back to the barracks, get you cleaned up.”

Anomaly winces and  _ whines  _ when they stand up, a broken, animal noise, and he leaves smears of blood on the heavily graffitied, greasy wall. 

 

Another “Ah,  _ shit,”  _ this one from Mids, and he ducks under Anomaly's other arm to assist.

“Guns. Bro. He needs a medic,” Mids says quietly.

He snorts. “Look me in the face and name  _ one  _ medic who wouldn't take one look at Anomaly and go after that fucking Null with a hypo of potassium chloride.” 

 

Anomaly flinches in their arms, trying to stand up on his own, push them away, protesting and protective, and is reeled back in with a sigh. “Nom, chill. No medics. Mids, I got this. Go get us a taxi.”

“You  _ got this? _ ” Mids demands, incredulous, his hand behind Anomaly's back gesturing emphatically to the still wet, still seeping bloodstains in his shirt.

“Yeah, I do,” Gunner answers calmly, and Mids shifts, skeptical but trusting, and lets Anomaly hang off Gunner's shoulder. 

 

Mids leaves, and he sighs again, leaning a bit to turn Anomaly and prop him up against the sink. “C’mere,  _ jackass _ , let's get you looking less like chewed meat,” he grumbles, stripping his tank off.

Unsurprisingly, Anomaly fights him, tries to stand up again, and gets pushed back down with a hand on his chest. “Sit the _ fuck  _ down. You've made enough dumbass decisions for one night.” 

 

He reaches around to wet his shirt under the tap, and Anomaly curls up on himself a little again, flinching when he starts to wipe the smears of wet and dried blood off his face. It looks like someone already gave it a half-assed try. “Fuckssakes. This isn't how to play like this,” he says softly.

That earns him a sort of confused noise, and a wince when he picks a bit of glass out of the split in Anomaly's cheekbone. “Yeah, surprise, I like weird shit too sometimes. Not like this, but--”

 

“Got our ride,” Mids says, sticking his head in back in the doorway, and wiggling in sideways like he's trying to avoid opening the door. “And some duds.”

He catches the dress greys jacket out of the air, the label issued to CT-9021 and left in the lost-and-found for fuck only knew how long. Good, whoever lost it won't care if it gets bloody. “ _ Excellent _ . C’mon then,” he says and holds the coat open for Anomaly to carefully slide his arms into the sleeves, wincing as the formed shoulders cover his.

Anomaly lets him close the front, either aware that his split and swollen knuckles won't let him handle the fiddly little hook-and-eye fasteners or submitting to being manhandled. The latter may or may not be a good thing, but if he can work Anomaly back onto some kind of safe ground, even if it's back into subspace, it's better than the drop.

Hauling Anomaly's arm over his shoulder and Mids’, slinging him between them like he's just had too much to drink, his head hanging, gets them through the bar. The taxi driver is another story, its modulator pitched low to whistle,

 

_ Wow, who'd he piss off _ ?

“Someone in better shape than you'll be if you don't shut up and drive,  _ droid,”  _ he snarls, as Anomaly ducks his head farther, flinching.

_ Screw you, clone. I got as much right as any meatsack to know what's going on. _

“And I just get a psych eval and stern talking-to if I have a little battlefield flashback and decide you clankers all look alike, so how's about you get on with the whole  _ shut up and drive  _ thing?”

 

That does the trick, and the same  _ don't fucking talk to me  _ routine as the bar gets them through most of the barracks. It helps that they're all pilots.  _ Vod’e an _ goes a long way, but some things still rate a reaction of  _ Not my circus, not my monkey-lizards. _

 

Getting a 'fresher to themselves is harder. The three ground-pounders taking the opportunity to get wet and slippery don't want to leave in the first place, and  _ really  _ don't want to leave when they see how fucked over 'Nom is, they want to help but there's too many cooks in this fuckdamn kitchen so get the shitpissing dickfuck  _ out _ .

“That does not make anything close to sense, bro,” is Mids’ opinion on the subject, but Gunner isn't in any mood to hear it because 'Nom is freaking out over the attention. Doesn't want people caring for him in the first place, let alone a couple soaped-up dipsticks from another unit entirely. Dumbass.

“Shut your face and get me a medkit,” he grumbles, manhandling Anomaly under a ‘fresher nozzle and slapping the controls over to “warmish”. 

“Eat my entire ass, taintchafe,” Mids snaps back, but leaves to let him peel Anomaly out of the wet jacket, ruined shirt, and painted-on, glittery shorts. 

 

Anomaly sort of whimpers that he's cold while he's kicking off his boots and coveralls. He'll deal with having wet shorts, he's not getting naked. One, it doesn't send the wrong idea, two, it reinforces who’s in charge: It's him and his common fucking sense, shitdammit.

 

“You're not cold, you're shocky. Hot water will just make you dizzier. Sit up,” he says, and squats down next to Anomaly when he does, his bleeding shoulders rounded and slumped. “Good.”

 

He's careful but brisk about sluicing the blood off the bites and bruises, water washing away the remaining crusted smears from the original injuries and the fresh, plasma-sticky stuff oozing down as the cuts try to close up.

 

“'m sorry,” Anomaly says quietly, and he snorts, puts his hand on the least-fucked up part of Anomaly's back and pushes him forward.

“No y’ain’t,” he growls, and pushes again. “Hands’n’knees.” 

 

Anomaly goes to  _ elbows  _ and knees, half-presenting, and he tries not to think about that because  _ what the fuck  _ as he spreads him a little, businesslike, and ignores the faint moan that gets him. 

 

“I oughta punch the stupid out of you but we both know you’d like it.”

 

A little cum comes out (seriously? Still?) but no blood, thank fuck. He's just swollen and raw and liable to be sore for a week. He might end up  _ pissing  _ blood if that bruise over his kidney is as bad as it looks like it wants to be.

 

“You’ve done it before and you're gonna do it again,” he continues, and shoves down on Anomaly's tailbone, pushing his ass down. “You're just sorry you got caught, and sorry you pissed me off.”

 

Anomaly doesn't want to sit up, just kinda curls in on himself. 

 

He sighs and pulls a soap ration down. “That'll have to do for now. C’mere.”

He hauls Anomaly up against his chest, soaping up the cuts and ignoring the hurt sounds from him. Especially the ones that might be stifled sobs.

Mids comes back, holds up a medkit. “Medkit,” he says redundantly, hesitating just out of the water.

 

“Thanks, I--”

There's three green stripes on the plasteel casing.

“You talked to  _ Trio?  _ Bro what the  _ fuck  _ did I say?”

“Dude I can't help who people tattle to,” Mids says defensively, holding his hands up.

 

He sighs, and reaches up to shut the water off. Mids throws them a towel, and he starts blotting Anomaly's shoulders dry. 

 

“Sutures?”

“Shit, it's that bad?” Mids asks, but flips him a couple sealed packets anyway. 

“Couple of 'em. Bacta will get most of it. Help me get him up.”

 

They get Anomaly bundled into a couple towels and onto one of the benches between the lockers and leaning against Mids. He's always had the better bedside manner. 

 

“Almost done, bro. Guns’ll get you patched up and we'll throw you in our bunk,” Mids says, arm around Anomaly's waist. 

 

“'s not Guns,” Anomaly mumbles.

“Man how concussed  _ are  _ you?” Mids laughs, but it's forced.

 

He snorts, and ties off a stitch high in the meat of Anomaly's shoulder, slathering it with bacta.

 

“'m  _ not,”  _ Anomaly's grouses, and doesn't flinch when he slaps a bandage over the stitched bite. “Trying to be funny. He hasn't called me bro or dude or anything all night. 'S not Gunner.”

 

Ah.

 

“That's because casual endearments and nicknames are for my friends, shitass,” he says flatly, and rips open another packet of sutures. “As far as I'm concerned, you're the fuckhead that let my fuckin  _ wingmate  _ get the shit kicked, fucked and  _ bit  _ out of him, so no, I don't really like you right now.”

He manages not to stab Anomaly with the hooked suture needle harder than he absolutely has to. This time Anomaly flinches.

“Yeah, never thought of it that way, didja?” he growls, and ties the stitch off.

“'M sorry.”

 

He sighs, because this time Anomaly means it, and leans forward, resting his forehead against the least damaged part of Anomaly's shoulder. “I know.”


End file.
